Henneth Annûn Story Archive

They called him Rooster Man.  That was because he climbed to the tops of the buildings and crowed; it always attracted crowds. Inn owners paid him for this stunt, two meals and an ale, a bed in their barn if the weather was unkindly. For a few pence he would climb a flagpole to perform.

It paid his way. And Gondor was a huge city, seven layers of walls surrounding the palace; he moved daily earning his livelihood, so the crowd never grew bored.

He would stand atop a roof in his bright red coat, strutting about like a true cock. His tail, long strands of orange, crimson, and sienna, were stiffened with wooden rods; he would reach back and tuck them into his pants so that they stood properly. He would flap his arms and strut some more, then raise his head and crow.

He had not had to beg in years.

While he was on a roof he would survey the area, the top of Gondor, the streets below him, the clean blue sky above. Everything smelled different. The wind lost its cutting edge and ruffled his hair playfully. And the sun--so bright, gleaming yellow, more magnificent than gold.

It filled his heart and his lungs with joy, a joy that he shared by crowing.

The one place he could not perform was atop the walls, where the city guard kept an eye out. He wanted to, those walls were high; one could see all the way to the horizon. But the time he had gone up on a wall, the guard had chased him, and cornered him atop one of the gates; he had spent a month in jail. No, not even money could get him on a wall.

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There was a day when everything went wrong. The streets were jammed with wagons, and carts, and carriages. People were rushing about, loading bundles of things into these wagons. The children stood in corners and watched, their large brown eyes scared--and confused. The horses and mules stamped, their eyes showing white, their sides twitching fearfully.

Rooster Man skittishly roamed the streets, jumping whenever he was touched, unable to keep out of the way. He avoided the animals, they might trample him. His tail got stepped on repeatedly; he finally picked up the cloth and draped it over an arm, ignoring the fragments of wood hanging inside the feathers. He sought safety--perhaps an inn.

The innkeeper of the Crossed Foxes, a man large enough and strong enough to be a blacksmith, actually pushed him down. "We don't have time for your foolishness! Gondor is being evacuated! Grab your things and go!" The irate man slammed the door in his face.

"But I don't have anything," Rooster Man spoke to the dark wood door. "Just the sun, and the sky...and the rooftops, I suppose. How do I pack them?"

Disconsolate, he roamed the crazed streets for a while. He could feel the wrongness soaking into his skin. Rubbing his arms and brushing at the dagging sewn onto his sleeves, he sought out the highest point he could reach--the Archive of Ancients, in the third ring. He did not go there often, too many guards. But today nobody paid him any mind.  He sat next to one of the gargoyles and watched the people running about. "The ants have lost their queen--or king, as the case may be.  They are lost."

He did not feel like crowing that day.

For the next two weeks, as a dark flow of people left Gondor, Rooster Man remained on the Archives, watching the exodus; at night, he went to the King's Crossing, a very fine inn that was nearby.

The inn was locked up, but the attic window was unlocked; he had no problem getting in. Everything he had ever dreamed of eating was there for the taking; only the wine cellar had been locked. He piled a china plate with a little of everything--beef, ham, chicken, cheese--and ate it all. Then the plate was washed clean. A fine crimson rug was pulled beneath the large kitchen table to make his bed.

And he waited. One day, as he sat among the gargoyles, the sky darkened. He ran and hid among the odd smelling scrolls and papers in one of the many rooms of the Archives, but it did not help. Fear sought him out there, gnawed at his heart and bowels. He jumped up and ran, fleeing the dark. "Light!" he screamed. "The sky is falling!"

Up he went, up to the slate rooftops. The sky was still dark.  He raced from one roof to another, leaping like a mad hare, not slowing down.  When he came to the wall, he finally stopped.  It was too high to jump to, too far away.  It had no buttresses or balconies that he could use.

"No!" he shouted angrily.  "I must call the sun!"  He used the drainpipe and the chinks in the stone to descend to the ground.  From there he ran down the mostly empty streets, past the warriors cowering on the ground, past the city guard who had dropped their weapons.

 At the First Gate he climbed the stair that led to the wall.  He went up until he reached the Gate itself, a massive thing built of oak and iron.  Atop its apex he stopped.  Catching his breath, he threw back his head and crowed, loud and long, defying the inhuman scream that turned his knees to butter.  "The sun will defeat you!" he screamed, crowing again and again.

 He crowed until the fear went away, until he was hoarse.  The city guard had to help him down.  With uncharacteristic gentleness they aided him down the steps and half-carried him to their barracks.  There he was given an ale. "Old fool," one of his helpers grumbled as he finished his drink.  "Think you're going to chase a Nazgul away by cackling at it?  They are not trolls, or cockatrices, you know--they don't turn to stone at the dawn."

 "Maybe," another guard replied.  "But the--cry--wasn't so bad once he started.  It was easier to hold out."

 "Only because we had to get this damn fool down before he hurt himself."

 "Rooster has to crow to call the dawn in," Rooster Man croaked.  "Had to call the light in.  It always comes when a Rooster crows."

 "See?" the first one sounded satisfied.  "Bonkers, is what.  We had best see him to the Healer's."

 Rooster Man ignored him as they put him into one of the spare cots.  Turning over in the bed he went to sleep.

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 He was on the First Gate the next day--or as close to dawn as he could figure. He strutted in his colorful ragged clothes along the walkway at the top of the wall and crowed his heart out.  There were catcalls and hoots of derision; he ignored them.

 When the Nazgul's shriek sounded he shook himself all over, flapping his wings and raising his tail, stabbing his nose and chin forward like a beak.  Then he flapped his wings once more, raised his head, and crowed.  He did not stop until the fear left.

 The men around him gawked for a second, then laughed.  It was a weak chuckle, but it grew.  Rooster Man gave his head a satisfied bob.

 Once he stood on the crenelation and crowed at the orcs, wagging his tail feathers in defiance.  The guard with him grabbed him by the legs and pulled him down.  Rooster Man hit the walkway dazed, watching the arrows zip past where he had stood instants before.

 Soon he had a guard with him at all times.  There were cheers every time he competed with the Nazgul's terrible cry.

 One day the air stilled.  Everything felt apprehensive.  Rooster Man stood atop the Gate and waited.  A large black cloud rose in the East.  Rooster Man flapped his arms and crowed.  Beams of sunlight struck the cloud, shredding it; soon only the sun remained.

 He remained until sunset, crowing of the victory over Mordor.

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